Island of Shadows Page 10

  Caught between desperation and resignation, Scáthach drew back her right arm and hurled her hunting knife through the swirling waters towards the terrible staring eye.

  A moment later the waters erupted into a furious whirlpool. The girl found herself moving through the water which such speed that, for a moment or so, she lost consciousness. Then she found herself free of the entwining limbs and she was shot upwards with an incredible momentum which caused her to erupt into the cavern again with such a force that she was thrown clear of the water for a moment. Then she dropped back. Gasping for breath, she turned and struggled towards the rocky floor of the cave and fear of the creature gave her enough strength to pull herself from the water and move a sufficient distance away from the swirling pool. The water was still bubbling with a froth caused by the threshing of the thing below. Then the foamy whirlpool subsided. All was quiet.

  It was a long while before Scáthach found enough breath to stir. She glanced towards the now still pool. There was no sign of the creature. The creature of the shadows had gone. She felt a sense of inward satisfaction. She had faced her childhood nightmare and overcome it. It was she who had emerged supreme.

  Slowly she stood up and took stock of the cavern. The luminescent substance was like a wax covering everywhere on the jagged walls and the light it provided was good enough to make out the details. The main chamber of the cave was about fifteen feet in height and little passageways and caves seemed to lead off from it. By the time she had visually examined her surroundings she had recovered her strength and breath.

  The terrible creature must have been the guardian of the cave which Ruacán had warned against. Well, it was blind now … blind or dying for her hunting knife must have surely found its mark in the eye and the eye was often as not a short way to the brain.

  She stared about. But if this cave was the one in which the ocean god, Manánnan Mac Lir, had chosen to hide his shield and javelin, where would they be?

  She began to explore each separate cave carefully.

  It was not long before she came on the right one, a medium-sized cave leading off from the main cavern. In the cave was a flat granite slab on which were spread the pelts of several animals whose identity she could not even begin to guess at. On the pelts lay a large oval shield and by it a slim handled javelin of some six feet in length.

  The girl stared at the shield with some degree of awe. It was four feet in length and twenty inches wide at its broadest point. Unlike the usual round shields of wicker or yew, covered with hide, or strips of decorative metal, this shield was of bronze ornamented with silver and with two silver bosses surrounded by intricate pattern-work consisting mainly of concentric circles and inlaid with enamel.

  She hesitated a moment and then bent down and picked it up. In spite of the metals of which it was made, it was light to hold as if it had been tailor-made for her. She held it easily in her left hand by the looped leather handle. There was another leather strap, the sciathrach, which would hang the shield across the shoulder in case two hands were needed in battle or, when it was not being used, would carry the shield slung over the shoulder.

  A smile of delight spread across her features. This, indeed, was a shield fit for a warrior.

  She turned her attention to the javelin. She had seen many javelins before, their heads either hammered from iron or cast in bronze. This one carried an extraordinary beauty in its crafting. Its head was slim and fluted and cast in bronze, fixed on a long handle of oak by means of a socket into which the end of the shaft was thrust and kept in place by rivets. The point was sharp and highly polished and was six inches in length. On the shaft, where a warrior would hold it for casting, was a winding of silk and a hook in which the thrower inserted a forefinger to help gain an extra impetus for the cast.

  Something odd struck her as she stared at both javelin and shield. They were still brightly polished and yet for how many years had they reposed in this cave? She cast a nervous glance around, as if someone would materialise to claim them as their possessions. Then she shook herself. If they were truly the weapons of Manánnan Mac Lir, then keeping them polished and bright would be a small achievement for a god.

  Scáthach picked up the javelin, testing its balance cautiously, and weighing it in her hand.

  Shield and javelin possessed a vibrancy in her hands. It was if they throbbed softly in her grasp like living things. She felt a surge of confidence as she held them. They belonged to her and were part of her. She suddenly felt laughter welling in her and gave vent to a chuckle. She stood and beat the shield rim with the metal of the javelin, issuing the time-honoured challenge to the world at large. The noise reverberated throughout the cavern.

  Above it came an answering sound. Abruptly the laughter went from her face as she realised the noise was that of disturbed water from the main cavern.

  Was the terrible water-creature still alive?

  She moved quickly from the small cave into the main cavern with shield and javelin at the ready.

  From the water pool, which was both only entrance and only exit to the outside world, she could see the movement of the black waters. She tensed expectantly and drew back her throwing hand. Curiously, she found the weapon shuddering slightly in her hand with a quivering motion of its own volition, as if eager to be cast, eager to get at the enemy.

  Thus poised, Scáthach stood waiting.

  The waters suddenly parted and a figure swam up. For a moment it lay, head thrown back, gasping for breath.

  The girl’s eyes widened and she dropped the point of her javelin.

  ‘Flann!’

  The young man stared at her briefly and then swam to the side of the pool, heaving himself up on the rocky floor. He crouched a moment, breathing deeply, before standing up and gazing at her. There was relief in his face.

  ‘Scáthach! Are you safe?’

  The girl smiled broadly.

  ‘As you see. Why did you follow me?’

  Flann’s anxious gaze wandered over her figure, taking in the red weals on her right arm and lower leg where she had been seized by the denizen of the deep.

  ‘A short while after you dived,’ he began, ‘I saw a commotion in the water and then blood came to the surface. I dived in to come to your aid. As I did so, the most terrifying creature emerged threshing in its death agony. A frightening sea beast with eight long limbs. I have never seen its like before.’

  ‘But you had no weapon,’ observed the girl softly.

  ‘I was frightened for you, Scáthach. It took me three dives to find the entrance to this cavern.’

  ‘Is the creature dead?’

  ‘Dead indeed,’ affirmed Flann.

  Scáthach gazed into the eyes of the young warrior for a moment, changing the javelin to her left hand. Then, on impulse, she reached up and kissed him full on the lips. Then she backed away and sought to hide her confusion in a smile.

  ‘I am safe enough,’ she sighed. ‘Come, let us be gone from this place. Are you recovered to swim back?’ Flann, his face more crimson than usual, nodded silently.

  Together they climbed back into the pool and dived into its depths seeking the exit. It was a few moments before they were treading water in the sea-pool. There was no sign of the tentacled creature. Its carcass must have sunk to the depths of the waters. They swam easily towards the rocks and heaved themselves up, Scáthach handling the shield and javelin with ease, as though they were extensions of herself. They made their way to the spot where they had left their clothes and lay down in the hot sun’s rays, exhausted. Soon the midday sun had dried the water from their bodies and then they dressed.

  They were just finishing dressing when a dry cough sounded behind them.

  Ruacán the Wizened stood there. His bright eyes were fastened on the shield and javelin. In the sunlight they shone with dazzling beauty.

  ‘So?’ he smiled.

  Scáthach returned his smile.

  ‘So … you were right, Ruacán. These are weapons fit for a g
reat warrior.’

  The old man nodded.

  ‘And a great warrior you shall be, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach. Your name will be on the lips of people when the gods who made those weapons are forgotten.’

  ‘Truly, did the gods make these weapons?’ demanded Flann, gazing sceptically for the first time on the prizes which the girl had taken from the cave.

  Ruacán nodded gravely.

  ‘The shield is called An Seancholl Snidheach — the strong ridged hazel — which was given to the ocean god, Manánnan Mac Lir, by The Dagda, father of the gods. It is said that the shield will shriek a warning when its owner is in danger.’

  Scáthach examined the bronze and silver shield with its intricate mystical patterning, its peculiar brilliance, and once more felt an unfathomable awe.

  ‘And the javelin?’ asked Flann, not hiding the cynicism in his voice. ‘Does that have magic properties, too?’

  ‘Indeed, my son. That is the Corr-Bholg, the sharp spear, of Manánnan Mac Lir, with which he slew many of the Fomorii, the gods of darkness.’

  ‘Then I am well armed,’ said the girl softly.

  Ruacán gave a slight nod.

  ‘Yet your best armament is in your heart, Scáthach.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The druid shook his head.

  ‘You will know when the time comes. But, until then, you may continue your journey to Lethra.’

  Flann scowled.

  ‘Easier said than done, Ruacán. We are cast ashore on this island and perhaps a day’s sail from the coast of Gallia. Where do we get a ship?’

  ‘Did I say that I was cast ashore?’ queried the old druid.

  Flann shot him a glance of annoyance.

  ‘Are you saying that you have a ship here?’

  ‘A ship? No. But I have a small curragh, a skiff which is big enough to take us to Gallia.’

  Scáthach met the gaze of the druid’s bright eyes.

  ‘Are you saying that you will help us reach the borders of Lethra?’

  ‘You will need advice on this journey of yours, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach. You have a strong right arm in young Flann of the Cruithne there. I am old and somewhat bent, but the ages have not diminished my learning or judgement. I would come with you and give you freely of my advice if you would hear it.’

  Scáthach did not hesitate.

  ‘I will hear it, Ruacán. You have spoken the truth so far.’ She turned to Flann. ‘Do you agree?’

  The young man pursed his lips and thought for a moment.

  ‘I have little use for magic and less for druids. When I see the druids who surround the tyrant Aintiarna of the Cruithne and fawn and dote on his every word, then I say to myself — how can we trust such who claim to be enlightened when they lead us into servitude?’

  Ruacán gazed sadly at the young man.

  ‘I can only say that we are human and humankind have faults. Do not blame the singers for the song.’

  Flann shrugged.

  ‘It matters not to me whether you come or stay. If Scáthach needs your advice, who am I to object?’

  The girl looked troubled but decided not to press the matter other than say: ‘I wish Ruacán to come with us, Flann.’

  Flann gave a gesture of indifference.

  ‘So be it,’ he said.

  The old man pretended not to notice his surliness but turned and said: ‘Let us eat, for it is well past the midday sun. When we have done so, we may continue to the coast of Gallia. From the coast, Lethra is but three days’ journey.’

  Scáthach started at the information.

  ‘You know your way to Lethra?’

  ‘I would be a poor traveller if I did not. This island is less than one day’s journey from that part of the shore of Gallia which is the easy path to the land of Lethra.’

  Even Flann expressed surprise.

  ‘Then we are close by?’

  ‘Close, but far,’ the druid replied. ‘There are several things to be accomplished, many dangers to be overcome before you will stand at the gates of the capital of Lethra where the answer to Scáthach’s riddle lies.’

  ‘Even so,’ smiled the girl, ‘we are closer than I dared imagine. Do you truly know the way to Lethra?’

  ‘I have told you so,’ the old man answered. ‘But I say again, it is not an easy road. So let us prepare and be on our way before it grows too dark to start our journey.’

  Chapter Eight

  They had been journeying for three days since they had set foot on the rocky shore of Gallia. Three days from the open, rolling hills of the coastal plain into the dark oak forests which lay beyond. Ruacán led the way with easy confidence, sometimes striding ahead in spite of his age, his robe flowing, his long oak-staff as his aid. Scáthach and Flann followed more leisurely, examining the unfamiliar countryside with interest. It was a terrain that was like the lush green of Éireann and yet somehow alien to it, not quite as green and fresh. And, along the way, there were far fewer hostels and inns for travellers. Indeed, they met with very few people on the roads at all. Only the occasional merchant passed them by with a curious look when they declared they were on the road to Lethra.

  On the morning of the third day they came to the entrance of a long, narrow valley, thickly carpeted with oak, hazel and pine. The path was so narrow through the woods that in some places they were forced to go in single file and several times Flann demanded whether the old druid had been led astray from the main road. However, Ruacán insisted that he knew the path and that they were heading in the right direction.

  After an hour or so pressing through the thickly growing wood and underbrush, Scáthach paused and sniffed the air.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Flann.

  ‘I smell a fire.’

  Almost at that moment they heard the clang of metal on metal some way ahead of them.

  ‘A smithy,’ Flann cried with a grin.

  Ruacán smiled at him.

  ‘An accurate deduction, my son.’

  Flann’s eyes narrowed at the gentle irony in the old man’s voice. He still did not trust the old man. Nor did he not feel comfortable with him. There was something mysterious about him and Flann was a practical person who disliked mysteries. He had learnt never to trust druids as a group of people. He had seen them betray his people, the Cruithne, into the hands of a petty tyrant for their own glory. No one could persuade him that there was integrity among them. They merely wanted power over people and sought to gain it by preying on their superstitions. This old man was no different. He had persuaded Scáthach to trust him but that was no reason for Flann to follow suit.

  Ruacán was pressing along the path and eventually came into a large clearing. Flann had been right. A large wooden cabin stood in the clearing alongside which was a forge. A fire was glowing there before which a giant of a man stood in the soiled leather apron of a smithy, his biceps rippling as he heaved a heavy length of iron from it with one hand while the other lifted a heavy hammer to shape it.

  The giant was over six feet in height, broad and muscular beyond anyone Scáthach and Flann had seen before. He had a shock of red hair, wide blue eyes and a humorous face. He raised his head and regarded them quizzically as they approached him.

  ‘Strangers,’ he observed. ‘It is not often that strangers come to this valley.’

  Scáthach’s eyes had taken in the contents of the smithy’s workshop and her eyes widened slightly. There were rows of swords and spears, shields and helmets hung around the walls.

  ‘Perhaps because this is a warlike valley,’ she observed dryly.

  The smithy flung back his head and roared with laughter; it was a deep sound like far off thunder.

  ‘You are observant, girl.’

  ‘You seem to be equipping people for war, rather than shoeing horses, fixing wheels and pursuing the more peaceful pursuits of a rural smith,’ she went on.

  The smithy grunted.

  ‘It is true that my smithy is called open more often to provide w
eapons of war than implements of peace.’ He shrugged. ‘But that is the nature of man. He is always concerned with thoughts of war and conquest rather than living in peace at one with nature. Indeed, even when man is not seeking to conquer his fellows, he wants implements to conquer nature itself. A veritable warmonger is man.’

  ‘A smith who is a philosopher!’ sneered Flann.

  But the girl shook her head disapprovingly.

  ‘A perceptive eye is still a perceptive eye no matter in whose head it belongs,’ admonished the old druid.

  The smith roared with laughter again, almost shaking the earth with his giant frame.

  ‘Well said, Ruacán.’

  Flann glanced suspiciously from the smith to the druid.

  ‘So you know each other?’

  ‘Who does not know of Ruacán the Wizened?’ demanded the smith.

  ‘And who might you be, smithy?’ pressed Flann.

  ‘My name is Goibhniu.’

  ‘Goibhniu is the greatest of all the smiths,’ added the old druid. ‘Gaze on his work, Scáthach. He has the skill to make you a sword which none could vanquish and a helmet which would present so terrible a visage that your enemies would flee the moment they beheld it.’

  Flann chuckled hollowly but Scáthach moved forward into the forge and gazed upon the weapons which hung there. It was true that she had never seen such beautiful craftsmanship before; no, not even in Uibh Rathach where Eola’s collection of weapons were reputed to be the best in all Éireann. She gazed upon their workmanship with undisguised admiration.

  Wandering along the rows of swords she came to one whose beauty, terrible as it was in a weapon so sharp, caused her breath to catch. Its blade shone brightly silver from some strange metal; it was keen and fluted. Its handle was an intricate and bejewelled design of gold and silver, inlaid with precious stones. She reached out a hand to touch it, almost wonderingly.